


Lines of Love

by zenkitty555



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Art, Doctor Strange Kinkmeme, Fix-It, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post credit scene noncompliance, Post-Doctor Strange (2016), Pre-Slash, Sketches, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 00:51:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10686393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zenkitty555/pseuds/zenkitty555
Summary: Based on the Doctor Strange Kinkmeme prompt: Mordo enjoys sketching, but never showed anyone any of his drawings. One day, his sketchbook goes missing, and once it’s found, it’s returned to Stephen instead of Mordo, because whoever found it assumed it was his since it mostly consisted of drawings of Stephen.





	Lines of Love

**Author's Note:**

> Not post credit scene compliant.

Whoever thought that he owned a sketch pad was an idiot. Everyone knew that Stephen had crushed hands, and even now could barely use them to do daily tasks, let alone draw. He couldn’t even write his name properly without involving some magic. Wong actually chuckled when he handed Stephen the book filled with sketches of Kamar-Taj, knowing it couldn’t possible be Stephen’s. However, since there were no indications of it’s owner, Wong thought Stephen might know whose it was. He didn’t understand why Wong thought that, until he opened the book.

The first few pages were of mundane things: containers, frustrated attempts at architectural landscapes, and flowers. They were pretty good, and Stephen should know, as one of his hobbies had been art speculation when he was a doctor. It had been like playing the stock market, and he tended to have a good eye for something special.

These were good, but the person was not a professional. It wasn’t surprising, as Kamar-Taj really didn’t lend a lot of time for these kinds of hobbies. However, it was surprising there were as many drawings as there were. Whoever did them must have really put a lot of effort into making the time.

After he looked through the first few pages, he came across drawings of people. He recognized one of Wong and a few of the Ancient One. There was a good sketch of the late Master Drumm that must have taken some time. Obviously Drumm had sat for that one, as it was a very detailed portraiture. The drawing spoke to him with its forceful, deliberate line quality. The shaded sketch was on the dark side tonally, and it reminded him of some of the expressionists like Beckman or Kirchner, with flat shards of shades instead of a gradual smooth gradation. He was slightly disappointed that it wasn’t in color, as that had been the real forte of the style.

In the next few pages, the drawings of people tapered off into figures in action. Some were doing simple things like walking or talking, while others were more complex speed sketches. There were a few of students he recognized, especially as the pages progressed.

When he turned to the last filled half of the book, he gasped. All the drawings were of him. At first they were simple things that he almost didn’t recognize, like his eyes or one of his ears. He only knew they were his because he spent so much time everyday staring at himself in the mirror as he shaved his face carefully. Although he had an electric razor, it was still a task to use it and not accidentally shave something he shouldn’t.

Then there were some more detailed drawings of him that surprised him. Some of them were of him in motion, but most of them were of him with his nose pressed in a book or casually eating something. Whoever had been drawing him, must had done so in the library mostly, although there were a few of him sitting outside looking at the nature around him.

Like the picture of Drumm, the stylization made the mundane scene more melancholy, but by the end of pictures though, they took on an ethereal quality to them, as if the expressionist was channeling a baroque painter. It was peculiar looking at this gradual progression, as if the artist themselves were changing. Whoever had drawn him seemed to have lost their steadfast artistic identity over the course of a few pages. 

He shook his head as he closed the book. The artist either really liked his appearance or was pining for him. He wouldn’t be surprised at either, as he understood his appeal. At the same time he felt sad for them, whoever they were. They could have just come and asked him. Instead they sat in secret, probably from afar, doing these drawings unbeknownst to Stephen.

Looking in the front folio, he didn’t see a name or any indication as to who it belonged to. He highly doubted it was Master Drumm’s, as they had only met a few times when Stephen was a student. It was peculiar that their were no self portraits in the whole thing. All the artist he knew had at least one or two in their sketchbooks, then again most of the artist he had known he hadn’t talked to in over twenty years. The only clue he saw was a little symbol in the corner of a few pictures. It wasn’t a signature, but it was simplistic enough to stand for something, a mark of sorts.

He put the sketchbook to the side as he turned back to the book he was reading. The duties being Master of the New York Sanctum seemed endless, and he couldn’t fool around with this small insignificant book of memories.

Yet, every so often the mystery called to him. Who was its owner? Why would anyone draw so many pictures of Stephen and not say anything? Why would it go unclaimed? How did it become separated from its owner?

Every time he thought about it, more and more questions arose. Wong was only able to answer one question, that was found stuffed in the bookshelf of the library. Whoever drew him had hastily stuffed the book into the stacks there one night, as Wong said it had been bending some pages of another book when one of the students had found it.

Stephen would occasionally pick the book up, his gloved fingers running over the spine, and debate whether he should try to find the owner or not. He was curious, and he wanted to meet the person who had spent so much time gazing at Stephen. It was flattering, and the more he looked at the pictures, the closer he felt to the artist. The moodiness and forceful marks counterbalanced with the delicacy of the composition.

He tried using a tracking spell, but it seemed that the book prevented such measures. Whoever it was didn’t seem to want to be connected with the book in anyway.

Despite his best efforts not to, he spent hours looking at it, trying to see if there were any marks or stains that could help give him some clues. There were no drips of coffee, or prints left behind, only those little pencil marks that stood in place of a signature. He looked at the little symbols so often, but their secrets never seemed to unravel before him.

That was until one day when he had been meditating it hit him that he was not looking at it correctly. He stopped what he was doing and went to the study to retrieve the book. Turning the book upside down, there it was written upside down, backwards, and with the letters superimposed on top of one another.

_A,_ _K, M._

It had been simpler than he expected. For some reason he didn’t associate the symbol with letters, maybe overthinking the problem before. He searched his brain for possible matches, and the only person he could think of was Karl Mordo. He had no idea what the 'A' might stand for, but figured it must be a middle name.

Now only if he knew where Karl was, then he could return it. He did often think of the man, as he had made such a big impact on Stephen’s life. If he were honest with himself, it was the first time he had a real friend in a long time. Obviously Karl also had taken an interest in him, but he had no idea how deeply it actually ran until this moment. The man had spent his time drawing Stephen in secret. Stephen’s chest became tight thinking about the possibility that Karl could have even, dare he say it, been pining for him.

Had he known, maybe he could have changed things.

Stephen traced the rounded spine of the sketch pad once more with his gloved forefinger, making plans to reunite the sketchbook with it’s owner. His heart pounding with anxiety and anticipation.

\----

It took months to find Karl, and he had been surprised that he was at the first place Stephen should have looked: his childhood home. It was odd to think the man grew up in a castle, albeit a small one. 

Stephen hadn’t known much about his ‘friend’, until he had picked Wong's brain about him, but even Wong didn’t know much beyond some of the basics. Although the two had known each other for over twenty years, Wong confessed that Karl mostly kept to himself unless it was about work related subjects. It was not surprising when he thought of it, as he was similar in character. They all were kind of like that. Asides from fact that most people knew he had been a doctor, almost no one knew any other details, even people from before he became a sorcerer.

Stephen took a breath before he brought his hand up to knock on the door, but before he could do that, the heavy wooden door swung open to reveal Karl, dressed in a knee length overcoat draped over slacks and a turtleneck. Stephen felt a little weird seeing the man like this, as he was dressed in his robes with the cloak of levitation slightly swaying in the breeze. He had never seen Karl dressed down like this, but he looked good  and even though a frown plastered his face, he seemed less stressed than the last time they had met.

“You have twenty seconds, and then I expect you off my property,” Karl said coldly.

Stephen felt a pang of sadness and hurt, before producing the sketchbook from where he was holding it behind him. Karl grabbed it from him, surprise flashing across his face before returning to it’s stoic expression.

“Thank you, but I would like you to leave now.”

Stephen swallowed hard.

“I wish we could start over. Had I known, I would have done things very differently,” Stephen confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.

He swayed slightly forward, his body closer to Karl than it had been to another person in ages. He was lonely, and he was pretty sure Karl was lonely too. They were kindred souls bound in pain, disappointment, and shared experiences. If only he could get Karl to see that they needed each other, just like the Ancient One had told him.

Part of him expected Karl to attack him, the other part of him expected the man to kiss him, but he did neither. He only stood there, staring at Stephen. Although twenty seconds had passed about a minute ago, Stephen was still at the door.

“Go away Stephen,” Karl said quietly.

“I miss you. I mean it. If I had known what I know now, I would have done things differently. I’m sorry that things turned out like this. Please believe me.”

The seconds of quiet seemed to stretch out for minutes, hours, even days as they stared at each other. Karl stepped backwards, and Stephen expected to have the door shut on his face. Instead Karl motioned for him to come in, and so Stephen did.

He was grateful for the second chance to make things right, all thanks to that little sketchbook.


End file.
